On Monday night, I went on a date. It was my first first date (read it again; that wasn’t a typo) in nearly three years but since it had just been Easter Sunday, it seemed like a good idea. (Not that I think meeting a man for a drink at a swanky bar downtown is exactly the same thing as Jesus rising from the dead, but in the spirit of rebirth and renewal and rejoining the living, I did spend the majority of the afternoon wandering the house muttering, “If it’s good enough for Jesus, it’s good enough for me.”
(And yes, I am well aware that I will I probably go to hell for that.)
Anyway, like I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
And generally speaking, I enjoyed myself.
The end of the night, however, found me in my now-regular spot on the bathroom floor crying (again), eating Cheerios (again) and wondering if another episode of Breaking Bad would make me feel better or worse.
I should have known.
I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t even close to ready.
But I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired all the time, of not wanting to shop, of not wanting to dance, of being—dare I say even it?— depressed. And I figured (because I’ve always been so sensible about such things), that a drink or two or five with a perfect stranger would make everything right.
My first thought, however, upon agreeing to a 5:00pm rendezvous at Valanni was “Damn, now I’m going to have to wash my hair.”
My second thought was, “Crap. This means I’m going to have to shave my legs now too…”
It’s not so much that I’ve let myself go, it’s just that I’ve been conducting some highly scientific experiments concerning the longevity of my fancy new shampoo (which my mother bought at a yard sale and then passed along to me) and I didn’t want to jeopardize the results with a sudden onslaught of personal hygiene.
As I started scrubbing, the thought of my first post-TWD date caused a tiny, solitary it-really-is-over sob to rise from my throat but it was only one, and it was over as quickly as it had started.
Plus it had happened in the shower before I started to put on my mascara.
By the time I reached the actual mascara application phase, however, I was starting to feel weird— almost as if I was cheating on TWD even though we broke up three months again and haven’t spoken since.
(Keep in mind, all of my favorite authors growing up all died miserable and alone. I might possibly have developed a bit of a love-martyrdom complex.)
Wearing a long black dress (the appropriateness of which strikes me only now), I made my way downtown with all the enthusiasm of an eighteenth-century French aristocrat headed to the guillotine.
I stopped in a park two blocks away from the bar to text my college roommates, whine about my miserable lot in life and ensure that I’d be fashionably late instead of left to stand around on my own like a moron.
Then I headed in.
(And yes, because I’m a horrible person and have to actually go to work now, I’m going to stop there for today. More Monday. Sorry.)